


Reflections

by fits_in_frames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-30
Updated: 2005-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to him, as he picks up his books and rolls of parchment, how odd it is that on the three most important days of his life, he has awoken before dawn and spent an exorbitant amount of time in front of the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://lilychick.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lilychick.livejournal.com/)**lilychick**.

**I.**  
At five o'clock in the morning, he finally gets out of bed, unable to sleep since midnight. _This_ , he thinks, _must be how Muggles feel the night before Christmas._ He's never celebrated Yuletime (his parents say it's for Muggles and fools, and besides, they give him presents all the time) but he heard about it from some of the children he played with at the Ministry parties his father brought him to this summer.

His trunk sits silently at the end of his bed, with his robes and his wand laid out on top. He decides against turning his lights on after hearing his father snoring in the next room, and instead gropes around in the dark, pulling on his robes over his pajamas. He opens his curtains just a crack and stands in front of the mirror on his wall that is taller than he is. His robes are two inches too long ("he'll grow," the witch in the shop had said), so he rolls up the sleeves one, two, three times, and stands on top of the copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ his father gave him last night. He picks up his wand in one hand, and tucks the nearest book ( _Charms_ is the only words left on the dusty, worn cover) into the crook of his other arm. He frowns at himself, and stand on his tiptoes, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot look any older than 11.

He closes his eyes, and tries to imagine the Great Hall the way his mother has described it to him a million times. He sees himself walking up onto the platform and sitting on the stool. He can almost smell the old fabric of the Sorting Hat, and hear its voice in his ear--or at least his mother's raspy approximation of it. _Brave,_ it says, _very intelligent, talented, you make your parents proud! I think you'll be a great GRYFFINDOR!_ The last word is so loud in his head that he actually winces. He opens his eyes, and stares at the crest on his robes for a long time: the lion, the snake, the eagle, the badger.

"Oh, Gryffindor is the only house you want to be in," one of the red-haired boys at one of the parties had said to him. "Unless you're a Dark wizard, and then you're pretty much in Slytherin. Usually runs in families, too. Both my parents and both my brothers were sorted into Gryffindors, and so am I. The Hat said it as soon as it got on my head." He had nodded and said that his father was in Ravenclaw. "Ravenclaw isn't too bad. I feel bad for the Hufflepuffs, though. Dreadful, that is, to be sorted into Hufflepuff. Sort of the leftovers no one really cares about." He had decided not to mention his mother's House.

He glances out the window, and notices the sun climbing higher in the sky. He hears the floor creaking in the next room, and then his mother's soft voice saying, "Amos, dear, we need to get ready to leave for King's Cross soon."

He puts down his wand and his book, takes off his robes, and runs his fingers through his hair. He squints at himself in the mirror, wrinkles his nose. He briefly considers what being in Ravenclaw would be like, but then thinks of his father, and as he climbs back into bed decides that badgers aren't so bad after all.

 

 **II.**  
It happens to fall on a Saturday this year. The team says they're going to take him to the Three Broomsticks and buy him his first Firewhiskey, even though he's never liked Butterbeer that much, and he's seen what Firewhiskey does to his father on muggy summer nights at other wizards' houses. He doesn't want that to happen to him, especially not in front of the team he captains. But he still won't say no.

He wakes up, on his own, in the dark. He pulls on his bathrobe, and makes his way to the empty Prefects' bathroom. He splashes water on his face and watches himself drip in the mirror. His eyebrows look like wet caterpillars, and he wiggles them to increase the effect. If he could go back in time and show this ridiculousness to his 12-year-old self, the bathroom would be filled with hysterical laughter. Instead, he dries his face, runs his hand over his cheek, and decides he doesn't really need to shave today. He becomes a man--a grown-up, an adult, a full-grown wizard, whatever you like--today and he wants to look like one. There is a tiny red bump on his chin, which he knows he shouldn't touch, but he does anyway. He taps his wand on it and it disappears. (His mother would kill him if she found out he was using magic to get rid of blemishes, but it shouldn't bother him now that the Ministry will allow him to do it at home.)

He stares at himself, and stares back at himself. His hairline is starting to recede and he's got lines around his gray ( _gray!_ he thinks resentfully) eyes. His lips are cracked from years of neglect in cold weather. One of his teeth is chipped from a Quidditch match fourth year. There is a scar just in front of his ear from when one of the owls in the Owlery scratched him when he tried to send a letter second year. He doesn't look 17. He doesn't feel 17.

The door clicks open and one of the fifth-year Ravenclaws (whose name he cannot remember for the life of him) comes in. He picks up his wand and towel, and as his hand is turning the handle, the Ravenclaw says, "Happy birthday, Cedric."

The words ring for a moment against the porcelain, and then they're gone.

 

 **III.**  
He wakes with a start, realizing he'd fallen asleep on top of his books a few hours ago. The sun isn't up yet, so he hasn't missed the Task, at least. The Common Room is eerily empty--the fire long dead, the chairs all in various states of disarray. He rubs his eyes and stands up, glimpsing himself in the mirror he had put up in the beginning of the year (not for himself, but rather for a group of third-year girls who sighed and giggled when they thought he couldn't hear them).

His face is blotchy and pale, and his hair is all sticking up on one side. His robes are wrinkled, bunched up around his middle, and lopsided. He shifts one shoulder and they fall into place as he runs his hand over his hair absently. He wonders if anyone will notice the circles under his eyes, but then realizes that anyone standing close enough to him today won't really care.

Then suddenly, as if controlled from outside his own body, he pulls out his wand, points it at his reflection and yells, "HA!" He holds the pose for a moment, trying to look intimidating, but doesn't. He resigns himself to the fact that looking scary won't help him get the Cup any faster, and turns away.

It occurs to him, as he picks up his books and rolls of parchment, how odd it is that on the three most important days of his life, he has awoken before dawn and spent an exorbitant amount of time in front of the mirror. Arms full, he walks back over to the glass, so close to it that his nose almost touches. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a large piece of dust, clinging like a tiny fly to the smooth surface. He uses his only free finger (the little one, on his right hand) to pick it up and flick it away. If his hands weren't occupied, he'd rub the spot out with his sleeve, but he has no choice but to leave his fingerprint behind.

He shifts the books around in his arms, and makes his way up the stairs, looking back only to tell his reflection, "Good luck."


End file.
